


the distance between us

by mirabilis



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Plants, Post-Time Skip, author never thought she would actually ever use that tag, rituals in domestic planting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26227018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilis/pseuds/mirabilis
Summary: “So let me get this straight, you not only forgot to water the plants, but succeeded in killing them?” Kiyoomi asks.(Or: in which Kiyoomi ensues the art of horticulture and Atsumu falls in love a little more).
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 270





	the distance between us

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! This fic has been a bit of lowkey struggle ahaha to write after heist fic.. *shakes fist* canonverse... u!!.... ahh but I hope you enjoy this little domestic.. soft.. piece ive written... I’ve been working on it for a few weeks and been a bit nervous ahaha 
> 
> cw: lack of knowledge of horticulture and botany... pls don’t come for me.. I did my research HAHAHA, slight mysophobia, blood, and mentions of dreams, the overuse of the word “Miya Atsumu”

“So let me get this straight, you not only forgot to water the plants, but succeeded in killing them?” Kiyoomi asks. It is very possible to imagine Kiyoomi, standing taller in front of Miya Atsumu, who sits comfortably on their sofa—yes, the image is quite unbearable—welcome to his world. 

Miya Atsumu is a sight to behold, he’s leisurely lounging around, pretending as if he didn’t just kill all of Kiyoomi’s well maintained plants in the weekend that he had been away from their apartment. If given the devastating circumstances, Kiyoomi might find Atsumu desperately handsome, for the light in the afternoon hits perfectly on his cheekbones and daylight playfully tangles his bleached, blonde curls (that could pass for mangly fur on a golden retriever). But right now, Kiyoomi had the desire to strangle his roommate. 

“Aren’t you exaggeratin’ a bit now Omi-kun?” Kiyoomi inhales, gesturing to the very dead-no-possible-way-of-being-resituated-looking-plants sitting in their respected pots by the windowsill, where they’re supposed to capture the best light in the room. 

Now, they are looking very dead, as in dead-dead. “They’re dead Miya.” Kiyoomi hisses irritatedly. “I left for two days, and asked you to do one thing and what you do, you fuck it up.” 

“Yer hurtin’ my feelings, I tried my best now.” 

“You didn’t water them at all.” 

Atsumu gives a jarring grin to Kiyoomi like it’s supposed to magically make him forget everything. “Oh Omi-kun, are you ever gonna forgive me?” 

“No” 

He shrugs, because apparently Kiyoomi’s opinion doesn’t matter, it never will as long as Atsumu continues to breathe and mind his own business which is equal to wrecking havoc no matter where he goes. “Are you mad at me then?” 

“Yes.” 

Miya Atsumu slides farther into the cushions, perhaps hoping to manifest into the sofa and avoid Kiyoomi’s endless reprimanding, even though he fucking deserves it. He’s a sight to behold, not that Kiyoomi enjoys locking eyes or drawing his attention for more than three seconds. It feels as if there are a hundred eyes peering into his soul, and Atsumu rides on the chivalry and high horse of being well— fucking annoying. 

“Are you gonna’ kick me out?” Atsumu asks. You see, he wears his shrewd mask of deception that fits like a glove, innocence and maybe if he batted his eyes and got on his knees and begged he would be more believable. 

Kiyoomi is in the current stage of mourning his beloved plants and so he says, “fuck yeah.” 

It is later revealed that Miya Atsumu does not get kicked out, because kicking him to the curb wouldn’t compensate for the Kiyoomi’s loss. So he does the next best thing: he strangled him. In his head. 

*

You need to understand that Kiyoomi did not ask for Atsumu to be his roommate. When Atsumu first joined the team and was paired up with the rest of the team he had insisted that he room with Kiyoomi. Now originally he had roommates with Bokuto, which was eventful to say the least. And Bokuto had been more than willing to move to Hinata’s apartment and leave the empty room to Atsumu. 

Now that he ponders upon, he almost regrets agreeing to any of this in the first place. And the thought of having Bokuto back didn’t sound so terrible. 

He did not like Miya Atsumu. No he despised him with every raging bone in his body, and for Kiyoomi who sits in the stone castle building broken bridges between the outside, Atsumu enjoys playing the prince in bulldozing past him. He’s a terrible roommate. He never cleans up, leaves his towels on the floor, correction; doesn’t even bother hanging the piece of cloth on the reachable towel rack Kiyoomi installed. Atsumu refuses to wash his dishes creating excuses like _there’s no fuckin’ way I’ll do house chores. Jus’ order takeout._ That’s not how it fucking works Miya. 

But Atsumu won’t understand, he never listens. Which is surprising, considering how atune and willing he is to listen to his hitters. Well of course he has to, that's his job and he’s pretty damn good at it. But you didn’t hear that from Kiyoomi himself. 

And he hates Atsumu. What about it? He despises the way he crawls into Kiyoomi’s life to start. How much of a slob he is, and somehow is able to make up for his sluggish abilities around the apartment by being a decent setter. It boggles Kiyoomi’s mind how entranced a man could be of Miya Atsumu, the biggest pet peeve bombarding the flow of his lifestyle. 

Not to mention he killed his plants, Kiyoomi has the right to hate Atsumu even more. And in no shape, way or form does it provide him comfort when he offers a mocking grin full of malice it runs a shiver down Kiyoomi’s spin and he grows the pent up need to smack Atsumu over the head. 

“But Omi-kun, I’m simply a delight to be around.” Atsumu will argue. He’s constantly arguing, most of it is debatable in its importance towards contributing to mankind, he also talks a lot. Kiyoomi’s sure that Atusmu knows that there’s no fucking way he listens to him ramble, but he enjoys watching Kiyoomi become uncomfortable. 

You are not a delight to be around, Kiyoomi retorts and arrogance flares like a lighthouse across Atsumu’s expression, some might call it radiance. _You’re nothing but a headache._ But Atsumu would only give him a dazzling smile pretending that Kiyoomi’s words were butchered and no longer existed as they flew past his head. 

It’s always, “Miya, clean up after yourself.” or “Miya, pick up your shit or else I’m throwing it out.” but those sentences are said only after an escalation of Atsumu never listening to him. Sometimes he does pick up after himself, in his own habitual manner he could neat or orderly. In some ways, Atsumu is like a closed treasure chest, Kiyoomi shatters the chest flowing to his ribcage and braces for the revelation of Miya Atsumu’s amending personality. 

It’s odd how Kiyoomi refuses to seek the amendments of Miya Atsumu, and yet is constantly reeled into his world. He should see a doctor. 

*

His fascination with horticulture started when he first moved into the apartment. Before anyone despicable moved in, he’s always enjoyed the ritualistic routines of taking care of plants. Though his interest for it didn’t peak until Atsumu moved in, which happened to be at the worst time. There was something calming and comforting in seeking the routines of everyday life, rising before the rest of the world rises from their slumber to stand in front of his window and bask in the early morning sun while watering his plants. Kiyoomi liked routine, much like cleaning the toilet and bathroom sink ten times before every use or scrubbing the kitchen counter. Routine is a dwelling hole despair that visits Kiyoomi, it begins with his hands. Brought up in the ashes of dirt, coming forth with his dignity and perseverance the routine continues on the carousel. 

“I don’t get it.” Atsumu says, shoveling a bowl of cereal, a half hour after Kiyoomi has arisen. 

He wants to ignore him, it’s very tempting, as milk dribbles down his chin and Atsumu’s hair rumples in a lump on top of his head. “What don’t you get.” 

“Yer weird obsession with plants.”

Atsumu says this after stuffing the spoon in his mouth and pretending like he’s not splattering milk all over the kitchen counter. Kiyoomi would have to clean it again, for the twentieth time this week. But then there’s the signifying smudge routine leaves on Kiyoomi, tearing at his ankles and he collapses. 

“It’s not a weird obsession.” He replies. The shoveling of cereal continues and Kiyoomi has to tear his eyes away from him, the disgusting settling in finally. “It’s—” he struggles to find his words, mostly distracted by Atsumu’s wide, seeking and curious eyes. Not to mention the obnoxious chewing. “None of your business.” He snaps. 

Atsumu finishes his bowl of cereal, a little disappointed over the lack of response from Kiyoomi. “Yeah, yeah, call it whatever you want to, it’s still weird.” 

“Miya.” 

He pauses from rinsing his dish in the sink (amazing right? Kiyoomi’s lecturing has finally reached him). “What?”’ 

“Shut up.”

*

For the record, Atsumu does get his ass handed to him, not by Kiyoomi as much as it pains him to admit. He pricks himself on the cactus sitting on the couch side table, after reaching for the remote. 

“What the hell Omi-kun?” Atsumu yells horrified, gripping his hand. 

“Karma,” he tells him and the level of shock that drops that smirk off his face is priceless. And the shock slithers towards Kiyoomi. You enjoy it don’t you, you enjoy the moments you share together. 

*

No, you don’t. 

*

They have a full day of practice and an evening match later that week and so Kiyoomi isn’t able to reprimand Atsumu as much as he’d originally liked to. It’s almost avoidance that comes between them, but not exactly because despite how much he would like keep his distance, Kiyoomi is constantly being thrown into a threshold surround by him, during practice, in the evening sunset of the brisk sun facing the gymnasium as they warm up for their game and in the aftermath of their apartment. 

There’s something about the way he moves Atsumu, treads lightly and rises from the dust, sunken in the name of his four letter word in splendid mirth. It’s almost unsettling, how fluidly they become, frightening even. But this is the beginning, surely it starts when Atsumu moves in and travels along the rickety bridge that cracks underneath your feet and you’re wavering uneasily. It probably started when Atsumu killed his plants in cold blood. 

That’s definitely where it began. 

Or it might’ve begun the moment he opens his mouth. Atsumu has a tendency to allow anything to flow out of it and then the world ceases to exist. Miya Atsumu holds the golden crown between the index and thumb of his finger, his throne structured on cards, one blow and he falls.

Kiyoomi first buys Ivy plants from the Mart three blocks from his house, without Atsumu because he bought them the night before he arrived. It was a hobby, something to occupy while he continued his daily routine, taking care of a few plants wouldn't get in the way of a routine would it? He doesn't know why he buys the plant. Maybe for aesthetic reasons, or to add some color to his apartment like Bokuto mentioned. Because apparently the walls are bare enough and he doesn't have all the snacks that Bokuto enjoyed feasting on during the dead hours of the night next to Kiyoomi's bedroom.

He fits the plant into his schedule, it works out. Kiyoomi takes care of the plant, and doesn't do a terrible job. He remembers his mother, and her keen knowledge of horticulture, that wasn't the reason was it, he asks himself.

And in the midst of the fog, stands a woman, curled in the bouncing sun and ebony hair drowning past her shoulders like Annabel Lee. She crouches in front of a crowd of poppies, a straw hat covering the majority of her face. That's your mother right? The memory wanes and Atsumu jumps into the frame. Go away.

Atsumu grins, surprisingly soft. A dream is Kiyoomi's first assumption. So that's where it begins, fake-Atsumu says.

He rolls in bed for the first week, and routine becomes a rock of purification and Excalibur seethes in the flame of Atsumu's wrath. He's a new routine you still haven't accustomed yourself to yet.

*

"Omi-kun,"

It starts with a name, the name he never asked for, and begged to leave but like Atsumu it stays. Both unfortunate, but he guesses that maybe after a thousand years when he's dead and lying in the grave and Atsumu screams his name like a mantra of purple prose like starlight and vanishing darkness, then maybe Kiyoomi will accept the nickname.

Kiyoomi starts with "what now?" And Atsumu returns his words with a grin, he still hasn't forgiven him for killing his plants. The issue lingers in the air like miscommunication between spouses and he feels revolted for creating such allusions in order to describe their dynamics. They're roommates. Again, an unfortunate but redeeming factor in Atsumu’s case. 

What now? Next comes the routine; the bickering, the confrontational part where you address the problem. Except there’s no problem. Right? “You can’t still be mad at me.” It was a declaration, or a threat hiding below waters, stirring a hurricane over his words. 

“I’m not mad.” 

Liar. You’re angry, internally mourning the loss of your plants. Pissed off at Miya Atsumu who lives in the space you’ve created and grown to, only to be teared away at the seams. But you’ve learned to be careful with your words, and Atsumu replies, “Yer definitely angry at me aren’t you.”

Are you? The leering voice in his head asks, you can’t be mad at him for long now? Kiyoomi pushes away the voice, same as he always does. “No, I’m not.” 

*

After practice, it’s early, and he attempts to follow his routine, letting Atsumu use the shower first, as water runs in the bathroom. He’s requested for the installment of a new bathroom for months but the landlords stopped answering his call after the first three voicemails he sent. Kiyoomi tries to revive what’s left of his plants. Starting with the succulents resting on top of the windowsill, his heart starts to crumple a bit just staring at them, perhaps there’s a chance that he might be able to revive them. 

He fills up the gold, tint watering can hanging by the windows and moves over to the sink to run it with water. Luke warm water runs through his fingers, and he sighs. Routine morphs through the rib cages and punctures his lungs and Kiyoomi leans against the sink elbows touching the sink’s edge. The water from the bathroom continues to run, it’s a constant reminder; too what-- Miya Atsumu turns off the bathroom shower. And the watering can begin to overflow so he leans away. 

Kiyoomi tips the can evenly across the potted plant, careful not to drip any onto the floor. Meticulously and steady just how routine should be. “Omi-kun, it’s yer turn.” his name is called out. Familiar. Not unusual. 

He stills. Footsteps approach him, and a hand touches his shoulder. Kiyoomi flinches, a bad habit. Atsumu takes a few steps back, hair wet, drops flying like petals around his shoulder and a towel drapes across his neck. “Don’t touch me.” 

The once easy-ladled smirk that appears on his face every time Kiyoomi is given the opportunity to take a good look at him is gone, a neutral gaze flies drastically across his mouth, and he doesn’t know what to make of it. “Sorry, you didn’t answer me the first time.” and the abrasive smile returns, almost as if it never left. “Get lost in thought?” 

“Sure.” 

He’s gripping the watering can handle too tight, and loosens his grasp. Kiyoomi also notices that Atsumu’s hair is done, not only flickering with flecks of water but pushing past his face, making him softer almost. 

Atsumu is a wonder, if he tried hard enough he could be known as the ‘eighth wonder of the world’ and hold a high title and ranking inside of Kiyoomi’s head as he ever ponders on what he’s thinking. It’s unforeseen how he already does, constantly cloud his head on a day to day basis. “What’re you thinkin’ about?” Atsumu asks. 

Kiyoomi returns to the succulents. “About the hundred different ways to hide a body.” He says dryly.

Atsumu laughs, no, it’s more of an unsettling wheeze like he couldn’t take him seriously. “Yer jokin’ right.” Kiyoomi turns away, facing the window and he can see Atsumu’s reflection in the preserves of the glass, as if it wants to capture Atsumu in the moment. “Wait Omi-kun, you were kiddin’ right?” he reiterates. 

The air between them thickens, tension can only thin away and Kiyoomi lets Atsumu continue to run his mouth, like routine. By the end of the night, the succulent looks a bit livelier and Kiyoomi is unable to sleep for the rest of the evening. 

*

He first meets Atsumu in high school. 

He first meets Atsumu in high school, unfortunately. He wishes his teen years of volleyball weren’t mercifully crucified by him, when he was approached by him during training camp, or after their first game as rivals where Atsumu crossed the net just to say hello, which Komori insists was him being friendly. ‘Friendly’. Kiyoomi holds that attribute between his teeth and rips it apart. That is no way to describe the boy. Both back then, and now as he is the official starting setter of the MSBY Black Jackals. 

“Are yer hands really that bendy?” Atsumu marvels, but he’s seen them before, during training camp. 

Kiyoomi wants to ignore him, and he does. “They are.” 

After that, nothing much happens. He expects Komori to be sinister and give his phone number to Atsumu, which Komiri says he would never deliberately do. Atsumu doesn’t leave, he never will. He’s on the news that Kiyoomi watches on his phone before practice, appears on the front page of ever volleyball magazine he purchases to which he has to start throwing them all away because after a while, Atsumu’s small dimples and sparkling, devious grin becomes ingrained in his brain. 

You will meet him again, you always do. He’s an inescapable sight in your path. Kiyoomi can choose the left or right, but in the end he will return to his apartment, sitting on the better of Osaka, relearning the synchronized hum of the Atsumu which begins to grow less annoying. Wrong. He will always be annoying. 

He could hear Atsumu’s smile, his obnoxious laugh in Kiyoomi’s ear as he told himself that. “Come on Omi-kun, I’m not that bad.” 

“Yes, you are.” 

*

It’s the team’s day off, meaning that neither of them have anything better to do. Atsumu rests on the couch, teething away at a popsicle (grape flavored). He’s currently unhelpful in cleaning the apartment which Kiyoomi has been attempting to do for the past hour. It’s been deemed unproductive as Atsumu continues to flip through the channels and crunch on the tip of the popsicle. The sound hits his chest again and again, sawdust fuming his lungs, chipping away at his soul. The popsicle melts away at Atsumu’s thumb, and Kiyoomi feels the anxiety, most pegging annoyance draining his very being. If this was how his weekend was already looking, he might have to throw Atsumu out the balcony door. 

“Hey?” 

Atsumu cranes his neck to find Kiyoomi in the kitchen, scrubbing away at the sink counter. “Yeah?” 

*

“We’re doin’ what?” Atsumu stares at him as if he’s grown two heads, or told him to that he needs to sell his kidney. 

He rolls his eyes, “We’re going plant shopping Miya.” 

*

When Kiyoomi first enters, he’s hit with the fresh, poignant scent of fertilizer, and he turns to Atsumu, who’s manning the cart that he prompted him to grab when they first entered the store. “What’re you lookin’ at me for huh?” 

He stares head on, Atsumu clicks his teeth, a habit he’s developed. “No reason.” 

Atsumu looks odd. No, that’s not the best way to put it into words, he looks different, cleaner even when he’s trading his uniform for non-volleyball clothes, as he zips up his Black Jackals wind breaker that meets his nose. Kiyoomi lingers behind him, as Atsumu very loudly stomps around the store in his sneakers, which Kiyoomi’s certain he’s modeled for at least twice now. He looks normal, he supposes is the correct word. No daunting flares of promise in each toss, but a hasty turn around each corner as he poorly navigates the cart, almost taking his eyes off it. His messy strands of blonde hair are gelled back, that’ll never change unless you have the pleasure of meeting Atsumu in the bathroom, or others, the bedroom. 

“I really don’t see why you had to drag me here Omi-kun. You’ve done yer plant shopping’ by yerself before.” 

Kiyoomi walks alongside the cart, making sure he keeps enough distance so Atsumu doesn’t “accidentally” ram into the back of his heels but close enough to keep on pace with him. “Because.” He begins. As he steps over to his leg to inspect the plentiful succulents in bunches on the shelves. “You need to learn how to stop killing every plant in sight.” 

Atsumu crouches his elbows on the handle of the shopping cart, “you may as well kill me you know.” He says, taunting and swaying along down the first aisle they walk down. 

“This is better.” He says, and Atsumu further continues to lean harshly against the weight of the cart as Kiyoomi parts from his side to wander to the row of Spider Plants. He huffs silently, like a little kid being dragged to the salon by his mother, or as if Kiyoomi is holding him hostage. 

Kiyoomi offers a bland side-eye of perpetual disgust, to which Atsumu is happy to notice that he’s laying his eyes on him, but quickly turns away as Atsumu opens his mouth: “Yer starin, am I that dashin’ that you can’t look away?” 

“Please, shut up Miya.” 

Atsumu points to the Moth Orchids, poking at the petal. “How about these?” 

Kiyoomi gives a quick glance and almost laughs, “those are Moth Orchids, you’d end up killing them in less than a week.” 

Retracting his hand, Atsumu laughs, and it vibrates like a mini earthquake, ringing like a snake charmer. “It wouldn’t hurt if you weren’t so pessimistic, yer supposed to teach me how to take care of them.” And then he shakes his head, feigning wistfulness. Kiyoomi feels as if he’s mocked at. “Yer a terrible teacher Omi-kun.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t brutally murdered my plants, then we wouldn’t be here.” 

Atsumu snorts, sitting up a bit, infatuating himself with a nearby Asparagus Fern plant. “Touche Omi-kun.” 

Kiyoomi leads Atsumu to the next aisle, and dumps three new succulents gently into the cart. He reaches for the Cacti, careful to avoid any misfortune in the plant poking his skin. He brings up his mask higher, shielding away from Atsumu, and he picks up the Spider Plant. That should be easy for him to keep alive. A shrine welds into his chest, and Atsumu sits at the top, smiling from above. Kiyoomi shakes the molding feeling sitting rock bottom and continues down the aisle. Atsumu off-key hums an english pop song and Kiyoomi half-heartedly kicks at his heel. “The hell?” Atsumu whips behind, staring into his eyes, he could light a fire in them. 

Maybe the colors of black and gold truly did fit Atsumu well. 

*

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me?” Atsumu says. It is early morning, the Sunday after their weekend trip, plant shopping and Kiyoomi finds Atsumu already woken up, standing in the middle of the living room. Frowning harshly at the succulents Kiyoomi has already potted and placed on the shelves on both sides of the curtains.

He grips the filled up squeeze bottle, “we all have to start somewhere.” He says. Atsumu grimaces, perhaps a bit of mortal pride has been wounded. (Kiyoomi- 1, Atsumu- 0). 

Kiyoomi ignores the reluctant groans coming from the other side of the room, and returns to watering his plant; the Orchids. Atsumu sweeps the squeeze bottle slowly, like the moment burns in his eyes and here Kiyoomi returns to his inner hell. 

“I know I don’t say this a lot, but did I mention how much I despise you.” 

“Start watering.” 

Atsumu huffs, and leans over the succulents. He stares at him for a split second with utter hatred and fear as if they’ll turn into a large, ominous human-eating monster. He actually looks a bit lost, he may even zone out in the next thirty seconds if Kiyoomi doesn’t help him out. Calling Atsumu hopeless would be only a tad rude, he leans over instead, and Atsumu looks up and hands him a wondrous smile, chipped, and in need of repairment. “Are you gonna help me out?” 

Kiyoomi ignores him and navigates the squeeze bottle, “The important thing about succulents that the soil drains completely before you water again.” He starts and Atsumu presses the handle for the squeeze bottle as water shoots out. “And luckily succulents don’t require daily watering, you won’t need to worry if you killed them.” 

Atsumu shoots a death stare, which softens. Odd. “Yeah, I got it. Anything else Omi-kun?” 

His eyelashes look like ashes in the sun, lurking around the gold edges of his eyes, like a golden egg being cracked open and melted chocolate oozes out. Kiyoomi turns away, “Keep your eyes on the plant.” He says. Atsumu’s grin deepens, like a wound, or a bloody scrape on his fingernail. There’s no ache—also strange. 

“Like I said, I got it.” Atsumu replies soundly, and together, they water the plants for the first time, a routine they’ve never shared before. And the oddest thing about it is that Kiyoomi doesn’t mind. Or at least not as much as he should be. 

*

It’s been a week now, and Kiyoomi is not sure how to describe the growing aura of Miya Atsumu. It was previously stated that he will constantly remain a mystery, or just become shut in a box, unbreakable to Kiyoomi or unable to get cracked open. Which is fine, he tells himself. Making no plans to become friends with Miya Atsumu is not part of the routine, you see the routine confines itself in a twenty-four hour clock, not surpassing cadence that emerges from the roots of the soil and twines around Kiyoomi’s ankles and hauls him away. 

He stops at the coffee shop in downtown Osaka after morning practice, Meian, with the permission of Coach Foster had allowed them to take the afternoon off before their game tomorrow. Kiyoomi sticks his hands in the pockets of his warm-up/ post-practice gear and orders an Americano from the younger looking cashier that contains the feral personality strangely resembling one of his teammates. “I’ll pay for em’” Atsumu appears behind him, the line empty and Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. A habitual instinct. 

“I don’t need you to pay for my drink.” Kiyoomi says, shuffling around to get out his wallet. But Atsumu is one step ahead of him and is already handing his card to the cashier. 

A jaded grin, ripping around the corners of his teeth, never letting go. “But I insist Omi-kun.”

The cashier looks petrified and confused, two grown professional volleyball players arguing over a cup of coffee. Kiyoomi feels bad, almost. “Fine, but just this once.” 

Atsumu’s smile illuminates harshly in the already bright shop, and it’s strong, strong enough for Kiyoomi to brace himself. “And I’ll have oat milk, sugar free caramel frappuccino with extra whip cream.” and he pauses a little, leaning on the counter of the register area. “Got it?” the cashier nods frantically. What the hell Atsumu, not only have you scared off the cashier which looks like a freshman in college but ordered the most repulsive sounding drink he’s ever heard of. 

He scans his card, platinum silver and their drinks arrive. Kiyoomi inwardly cringes at the sight of Atsumu’s drink as he swipes a finger at the tip licking off the whip cream. “You disgust me.” 

Atsumu snorts, walking off to the seating near the front of the coffee shop and sits down. “It’s not like I’ve never heard that one before Omi-kun.” and he flicks carelessly to the seat in front of him. “Are you gonna sit?” 

He sits for the record, a triumphant expression crosses paths with Atsumu as he sips loudly on his frappuccino. “You’re going to get a heart attack if you keep on drinking shit like that.” Kiyoomi points out. Atsumu stares deftly, and takes another long sip, probably to spite him. 

“Be careful now Omi-kun, if you keep on talkin’ I might actually think that you care about me.” Atsumu cracks a smile, like a fresh intake of air, a repetitive instinct that Kiyoomi has carved around the circumference of his brain. “Now, now, I wanted to tell you about all the research I’ve done.” 

“Research?” 

“On plants, duh. I didn’t wanna keep on killin’ yer plants without knowing nothing about them” 

Kiyoomi stirs his coffee, dumping the sugar packets laid out conveniently in front of him. “How kind of you Miya.” He replies flatly. 

“Did you know that growin’ plants indoors began in ancient times. The practice of indoor gardenin’ dates back to ancient times. Initially, in ancient Egyptian, Indian and Chinese civilizations pot plants were used in outdoor settings in courtyards.” He begins to read off, presumably from a website. 

“These are fun facts. How is this going to help you?” 

Atsumu clicks his tongue impatiently, “are you gonna listen, and not keep on makin’ rude comments every time I speak?”

Kiyoomi unleashes the fracture of what some who may witness it, call a smile. “Debatable.” 

*

Spoiler alert: you end up listening to the boy who you are forced to call your roommate, ramble about every finding he found on the search engine about horticulture. Double spoiler alert: You also don’t mind it. Correction, due to the fact that you wasted three hours sitting with Miya Atsumu in a coffee shop _willingly._

Is it illegal to add a triple spoiler alert. As you know, life is full of surprises and Miya Atsumi is no exception from the truth, or routine, but this wasn’t part of your routine: Allowing yourself to mildly enjoy the pleasure and company of Atsumu. Not part of the plan. 

Well now what do you have to say about that?

*

“So, Omi-kun,” Atsumu starts as they both lounge around the apartment, lethargic after three hours of rigorous practice. “I’ve been thinkin’ about names.” 

Kiyoomi sluggishly rises from the other side of the couch, far enough from Atsumu that he can properly scrutinize and judge him. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“Plant names.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Atsumu smirks, and bounces off the couch, nearing Kiyoomi too fast. “I’m serious, look, this is serious. We are taking care of plants, they need names.” And he pulls out his phone, “If it’s a boy, then Greeny, and if it’s a girl then” Kiyoomi takes liberty in stopping him right there. 

“Firstly, no one names their plants, they’re not pets. And secondly, ‘Greeny’ is the probably the worst name I’ve ever heard.” He says. And hopes to watch Atsumu’s expression fall in it’s all plastic capabilities of creating a plausible smile but he continues to grin. He’s always grinning Kiyoomi notes. 

Atsumu waves away the negativity. “As co-parent it’s mandatory that you join in parental discussion as important as the name of our plant.” 

“This isn't a child.” 

He’s ignored, that’s expected. And Atsumu continues on, that’s again unfortunate. “As I was sayin’, if it’s a girl then Miya Akane.” 

“That’s a terrible name, the plant isn’t your kid.”

“I beg to differ. Yer the worst parent, if yer not careful, then I’ll be talkin full custody of the plants.” 

“Miya, they’re not real.” 

“Hush! Not in front of the children!” Atsumu halts. And Kiyoomi is tired. In the end, the conversation dies out, Atsumu collectively agrees not to name the plant Miya Akane for the sake of Kiyoomi’s sanity. The argument becomes distilled and grows into particles through the air, turning into emptiness. It’s probably for the best. 

*

When Kiyoomi is eight, he remembers a couple things.The hot, smothering sun pinkening his skin, the Sun itself, and the way the wind fluttered the brim of his mother’s straw hat. There were also blisters forming on dents of his palm and new scabs formed above the bruising and muddy skin of his knuckles. Eight year old Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t feel much, other than the sun. There’ also his mother’s smile, which could never compete against the sun but she sure did try hard enough. 

He remembers how lilies feel against his knees as he hunches over meticulously, careful to not put all of his weight on his lower half and take a nosedive into the sea of lilies and orchids his mother had been planting for days. “Kiyoomi, come here.” She gently nudges for him to come close. 

“Yes?” She reaches over and playfully dumps her straw hat on top of his head and giggles a little. 

“It’s important that you nurture the important things in life, otherwise you may find yourself a little lonely when you’re older.” 

Eight year old Sakusa Kiyoomi is young, hates dirt and loves his mother and so he simply says, “But mother, are you lonely?” 

The dirt feels like blood and ashes in his fingers, crossing lines to meet into the darkest parts of his nails, as his mother laughs, pinches his cheeks and returns to gardening. “How can I be lonely if I have you Kiyoomi?” 

Kiyoomi wakes up later that night, breathless, clutching at his chest to find Atsumu at the foot of the couch, curling around the arm, knocked out and sleeping soundly. It’s just a dream, his past. There’s not much to dwell upon, or at least that’s what you tell yourself. 

You aren’t lonely. 

*

“It’s so late in the afternoon, I’m practically gettin’ a sunburn.” Atsumu complains, swatting at his face, fanning the sweat off his cheeks. Kiyoomi hates to agree with him, but the sun is growing harder and harder to withstand as the sun doesn’t even think about going down. The temperature is humid, as Atsumu rolls up the sleeves of his cotton shirt. “Tell me why you decided to garden now? I’m gettin’ hungry.” He asks.

Kiyoomi pulls back the visor he wears, shielding his forehead from burning, something Atsumu does not have. “Because, we need to plant the flowers we got a few days ago. And I forgot about the empty plot that I pay for monthly.” 

“Couldn’t we have done this some other day?” 

“No, and stop talking and get planting.” Kiyoomi instructs. Currently they sit in the near middle of the outdoors segment of their apartment complex. He’d never known that there was a gardening space that you pay rent for to plant on until recently. He hands Atsumu the daffodils in a pot sitting beside him. He watches as he atrociously tries to transport the flowers out of their pot. It’s a funny sight to behold, but he didn’t feel like cleaning up another of Atsumu’s messes today and so he reaches over. “You’re doing it wrong.”

Atsumu looks up, sweaty and breathing heavily. Cracks of the sun swim in his eyes, he looks younger— that’s another peculiar speculation. Kiyoomi cranes his neck to feast upon how the leafs of the circulating plants around them cast shadows along the silhouette of Atsumu, and it’s something along the lines of torture. “Then teach me.” He says softly. 

Kiyoomi gives a weird look, which clearly does not meet his eyes as Atsumu hovers close. Blonde curls fall over his forehead when he leans over to reach for the shovel, and there’s a sudden skip of the heart that causes Kiyoomi to yearn for his heart to just stop. Miya Atsumu is not attractive. He’s in his way. And Atsumu glances upward to give Kiyoomi an awkward quirk of the lips like he’s the one who got caught gawking at Kiyoomi, and not vice versa. 

“Omi-kun are you alright?” 

Kiyoomi breaks the stare and hands Atsumu another potted plant; this time Blue Hydrangeas. “Put that next to you. And then I’ll help you out.” 

Atsumu follows, and then Kiyoomi slides on his gloves, which Atsumu had previously put on a while ago. The traction to his fingers meets the thick team of the gardening gloves, his stream of consciousness fades and he’s swallowed by the sun. “Okay, what do I do next?” 

“Dig out the bulbs of the daffodils and plant them over in the space next to you.” He commands, and Atsumu’s gloved hands dig into the dirt and stir the flower awake. He’s awfully gentle, which is pleasantly surprising but he sort of can imagine it, those hands that connect with the ball, like the King’s blade exalting on the rock that God bows upon. Death comes in a chariot, mercy gliding alongside and Miya Atsumu stops in the path of Death. 

Now what? “What do I do next Omi-kun?” 

“Start burying the bulbs and then we’ll work on planting the Hydrangeas.” 

Atsumu nods, the sun withers, and Kiyoomi helps a little. Scooping up the dirt onto the ground, as their hands collide. It’s an accident and Atsumu stays there, so it’s not an accident. Kiyoomi isn’t the first one to move, in fact neither of them are, as he pats the dirt with Atsumu’s hand skimming through his fingers lightly, tracing each knuckle while planting the rest of the dirt. It’s casual, an accident he repeats to himself. Are you going to move, the milky crests of gold in Atsumu’s eyes ask, it’s a challenge, and he inhales. There’s no one else in the garden, dusk bows on his back, Kiyoomi reaches over to the flowers and so does Atsumu. 

You are caught in a crossfire, one wrong step and you’re down. “There.” Atsumu finally speaks, “How do they look?” And gestures to the fully planted garden they’ve been working on for the past few hours. The blue in the hydrangeas turn a warm hue in Atsumu’s blonde curls and he looks more subdued. 

Kiyoomi tilts his head back a little, avoiding the fond gaze wearn like second skin on Atsumu’s expression as he says, “Not bad for a first timer.” 

“Yer breakin’ my heart Omi-kun, you gotta admit, I did a pretty damn good job.”

He doesn’t reply and stares up at the sun that begins to leave Kiyoomi, and the fondness never leaves Atsumu and a twinge in his heart snaps. Atsumu doesn’t look so terrible in the sun. 

*

Let’s reiterate on the mystery of Miya Atsumu, you bitterly whisper his full name, no honorifics included and it tastes like a curse. It’s extremely difficult to witness him in a new light, or darkness for that matter. But you see him in the smallest fracture of the moment that you would love to hold closer than before. For instance, in practice, it shall begin with practice: in which Kiyoomi finds himself staring incautiously at him while he sets, or from the sidelines as they practice their hitting. The way his hands are a compass, directing the ball to the hitter and their paths meet directly. Or how his eyes are a map, deepening into the bitter and joyful souls of the crowd depending on who he unleashes his spell upon. 

If all points lead to the heart then is that where their apartment is also located? In the upper parts of Osaka, living comfortably but spaciously in the two bedroom studio apartment as not lovers, but roommates. They could pass for lovers, is your second thought. Now, kiss it away from your mouth and wash it down with soap-- actually never think of it again. 

Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu was once a dreamer, or if he still dreams. (What you really crave the answer is, does he dream of you?)

Why don’t you answer that for yourself, Atsumu dares. 

There’s another thing. Yes, he has a lot to unravel, you wouldn’t mind right? Kiyoomi notices a lot during games, an example is their recent game where they scrapped a win just barely in the third set, final point delivered by Bokuto respectfully. It’s hard to breathe, play, learn how to improve and play again when you're too busy trying to figure out what brand shampoo Atsumu uses or his hair remains in perfectly unkempt curls around his head. Or if he cries himself to sleep. Or if he really meant to kill your plants while you were away for less than forty-eight hours. 

“Omi-kun.” 

“What now?”

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” 

It takes him a moment to answer this question. And he’s returning to the place where it began, bickering with Atsumu in their shared apartment. Leaning over the row of plants they’ve taken care of together, growing old. “I don’t know.” 

Routines are hard to defeat, difficult to change after a certain number of years. However, taking care of plants, watering the bed of flowers in your garden with Miya Atsumu is not. Ah, there’s a good answer, now the next step is to keep it to yourself or else the next few words you say next will be your last. You cannot sit in regret if you’re already drowning in it. Miya Atsumu, there’s a name you can say. You call him ‘Miya’ though, why? Why not Atsumu. Atsumu is a monster, disguised in a twenty-two year old professional volleyball player who likes to look up fun facts on very unreliable websites, order over sweetened drinks and hold hands with death, wearing the skin of someone else. 

Kiyoomi has yet to discover him, he’s a lost explorer canvasing the routes of rocky surfaces and dead ends and Atsumu could be found as a beacon of hope, only if you ask everyone but Kiyoomi. Will you help me search for whatever I’ve been looking for, intimacy pleads and Atsumu steps closer. Those are the dreams he has, Sakusa Kiyoomi is an adult, and he dreams of something he will know if he can have. 

It starts with a lending hand, multiple dead plants in his living room and Miya Atsumu. It always begins with him. And he truly doesn’t mind at all. 

*

He finds Atsumu, later that night, or maybe it was the next night. Kiyoomi continues to not understand the concept of time as he continues to grow older. There’s a nook, where their plants grow perfectly against the brilliance of the sun that now is replaced with the moon. He has no current complaints, as it lights the roots in Atsumu’s hair and sets a cool breeze along his arm. He looks tired, but not restless. Drained, but his smile is still worn elegantly. How does he manage to do it Kiyoomi wants to ask. “Do you mind if I sit?” 

Atsumu looks up, and waves to the empty space across from him, this would require them being close, too close in his opinion. “Be my guest Omi-kun.” and he gathers his knees and tucks them to his chest, leaving Kiyoomi more than enough to sit. He offers a silent ‘thank you’ and sits on the cleaned up window nook that he had scrubbed ferociously earlier that night. 

“Why are you awake?” 

Atsumu crosses his arms, resting them on his knees and letting the other fall limply and in the moonshine brandishing resiliently in anticipation of his slender hand, Kiyoomi almost stops his words to admire it. Crafted by God himself, it was a weapon. A part of Atsumu’s body that conveys the language of the court. “I couldn’t go to sleep. You?” 

Kiyoomi silently chuckles, turning towards the large window. From here, he could see the squirming, quietness of Osaka, and the faint of people in the streets as the moon dulls less in the night. “Same.” He says, he didn’t know why he was awake really. 

Atsumu looks like starlight against the window, irresistible, and the Spider Plant potted across from him marks a curved grin on his lips, and Kiyoomi reaches out. It’s instinct, just like Miya Atsumu and setting, or like plants and their covet towards nurturing the sun wholeheartedly. Kiyoomi is well aware of what’s doing, which makes it even worse. Or better, ask the opposite party and you will be able to gather an answer faster than usual. His hand creeps along Atsumu’s jaw, tracing the outline that’s been birthed in the bursting shadows of the moon, and swooping along his cheek, cupping him close. 

“Omi-kun?” 

Inhale. Exhale. “Yeah?” 

“Would you kill me if I told you that I’ve been wantin’ to kiss you.” 

“Probably not.” 

Atsumu dips into an easygoing smile, ordinary in every way possible but blinding to Kiyoomi. “So then, can I kiss you?” 

Kiyoomi just wants him to shut up. He wants the whole universe to shut up as he meets him halfway, or closer than that. He kisses him, and he doesn’t hate it. His lips taste like aloe vera and sunscreen but mostly like colgate toothpaste. The kiss is sweeter than he expected, and he pulls apart. Atsumu looks dazed, like he’s in a dream. No, this is real he whispers. “Kiss me again?” 

And a warm hand cups his jaw and he returns to the apartment, where he sits across from Miya Atsumu, kissing the living daylights out of him and the moonlights kisses them back and wanders on Atsumu’s hair like a midnight waltz. Kiyoomi kisses him, once, and then twice, and when he kisses him for a third time, he forgives him finally for murdering his plants and decides at that moment that he was in love with him. 

*

“By the way Omi-kun?” Atsumu starts as he rests his head in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck, it’s comforting and relaxing. As he begins to water the Chinese Money plant, and Atsumu says, “Will you ever forgive me for killing your plants?” 

He kisses him chastely, as their plants savor the abundance of sunlight in their favor. “Maybe one day.” 

Atsumu smiles, joy simmering gently and he laughs as Kiyoomi falls in love a little more.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! U have reached the end of the fic... this idea honestly came to me months ago, and then I had decided to sit down and actually plan this fic two weeks ago. I honestly took a while with this, because there was a wack transition between au writing and the worldbuilding to canonverse which took me a millennium to get into the rhythm of. I never write anything as soft and domestic.. and prob never will because i am passing away as we speak.   
> Atsumu's fun fact is from Search Results  
> Featured snippet from the web  
> [this website](https://www.prestigiousplantscapes.com.au/9-surprising-facts-about-indoor-plants/)
> 
> I honestly had been enjoying the process and finally after bouncing between the wc and other factors another fic has come to an end. If you enjoyed this fic, kudos or comments are appreciated and make my day<3
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/atsuhinass__) if you would like, for more updates and to talk abt sakuatsu :) 


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